


something sweet / a peach tree

by fraldarian



Series: i love everybody (because i love you) [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gender Identity, Trans Female Character, Trans Sylvain Jose Gautier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraldarian/pseuds/fraldarian
Summary: When he first shows Felix the dress, it’s on his thirtieth birthday, a month after their wedding, and they’re in a horse pasture. Once, long ago, it had been meant for war steeds. Now there’s little more than a mare and her foal, and a checkered blanket that shares a meal meant for Duke and Margravine.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: i love everybody (because i love you) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884040
Comments: 24
Kudos: 89





	something sweet / a peach tree

**Author's Note:**

> sylvain is transfem and uses he/him for the majority of the fic, until the end. as always, you can find me on twitter under the handle @fraldarian

When Sylvain is nineteen, he tells a pretty girl that he wishes he could have a face like hers. It’s supposed to be romantic, or what he hopes comes off as such, but instead she clucks a tongue and taps a nail against his lips as if it’s a dirty little secret he should’ve kept hidden.

He doesn’t remember much of that night. There’s shaky hands and a steady numbness spreading across his skin. Lipstick stains against a neck that doesn’t feel like his, blemishes from a warm body that leave his mattress nothing but cold. He’s a long way from Gautier territory, but he can’t help but feel like he’s been thrust into the midst of a Faerghan winter.

What Sylvain does recall begins and ends with tears upon a heavy tongue; in the end, he discovers what half a decade’s worth of naked longing tastes like.

He’s lived several lifespans in a period of three decades. They’re cradled in his open palms now, and despite what he may think, there’s one last one he has yet to find settled in his hands. It involves a layer of hard truth and flowing frocks bunched underneath calloused fingers.

When he first shows Felix the dress, it’s on his thirtieth birthday, a month after their wedding, and they’re in a horse pasture. Once, long ago, it had been meant for war steeds. Now there’s little more than a mare and her foal, and a checkered blanket that shares a meal meant for Duke and Margravine.

“What do you think of it?” He says out loud, all fine lace and tight corset. He gives an experimental twirl, feels flowers tickle his ankles and grass nip at skin. It feels freeing. Refreshing.

Felix sits across, back to a tree. He’s beautiful, is always beautiful in Sylvain’s mind, and even more so when a smile lights up sharp features. “I think,” he says after a moment of careful consideration, “that you look like a work of art that should be hung.” His voice is soft, quiet, as if Felix himself is afraid the wind may steal his words and carry them to far-off lands. “You look lovely, Sylvain.”

It should not elicit such a reaction from Sylvain, and he is sure if it was anyone else that it would not. But there’s something about the way the words are sung like a melody, caressing cheeks and dipping into ears. It makes him pause, makes hands knead at a maroon dress and eyelashes be lowered. “Thank you, Fe.”

There’s been a lot lost to repression in his life. And yet he thinks, standing here in an open field with a breeze ruffling hair, that it may be alright to start over. Especially when Felix rises to his feet, takes Sylvain’s hands in his and kisses each scarred knuckle. 

“Why are you thanking me?”

“I don’t know.”

A pause.

“Has no one ever let you be who you want to be, Sylvain?”

“No.”

The silence that stretches on seems nearly unbearable, a horror that Sylvain doesn’t know if he can let play out in his mind. Yet against all odds, Felix doesn’t frown, and he doesn’t show pity. Instead he lifts a hand and tucks auburn bangs out of his partner’s face. “Well,” the Duke says after a moment, “I’m glad you can now.”

There’s been several instances in his life where a smile has threatened to break his face in two. It’s supposed to be a myth, this stretching of skin until it grows taut and the crinkling of hazel eyes. But with Felix, it’s become less of a rare commodity and more of a natural occurrence, like when the sun rises each day and sets each night. “I am too.”

When Sylvain is twenty-five, he tells himself that a war resets the ideals of everyone. Annette no longer sings, Mercedes carries bloodstains upon frocks, and Dimitri speaks of soldiers and kin long past. He thinks, somewhere deep down, it means he can change too. He has already, of course – there are no one-night stands, no pins and needles and foreign hands against a chest. The loneliness is still there, so overwhelming that it threatens to kill him. But it’s easier to manage when you’ve got the length of a lance between someone’s ribs instead of the length of an unmentionable between someone’s thighs.

What he means by changing, in the end, is the security blanket that he’s let cloak his mind. Like an adhesive wrap he rips it free, changes crimson blood for ruby cheeks and heavy armour for frocks he wears in private until the day he turns three decades. Only after the war, and only after the seepage that has stained his clothes for so long washes free.

Sitting here under the strength of a tall oak tree, he feels his new roots take place and his old ones unearth themselves. Felix’s hand in his is grounding, and when he speaks, there is no falter like there would have been with anyone else. “I’ve always thought I was a woman more than a man.”

“You are what your heart tells you.”

Goddess, how he loves Felix, and Goddess, how he wants to kiss him. “I think sometimes,” he says out loud, “about what it would have been like. To have been born a woman.”

Felix hums thoughtfully, lets fingers drift across a splayed dress. “You are one, if you believe so. I don’t think being born in the body you were given changes that.”

It’s easy to sit here and forget about what truly happened in this field half a decade ago. Even more so when the foal dislodges itself from its mother’s teat and runs for no reason other than pure ecstasy. It’s a birthing ground for new beginnings and fresh life. Sylvain supposes it might as well be for him, too. “Can I ask something of you?”

Felix nods, turning a steady amber gaze upon Sylvain’s face. “What is it?”

Teeth meet a bottom lip, and before he can stop himself Sylvain chews on pinkened skin. “Would you ever object to referring to me as her?” Sylvain swallows past the thick lump forming, closing hazel eyes. “I’d like to see how it feels, sometimes. But I don’t – I don’t think I’m entirely ready to leave being known as _him._ ”

The answering smile Sylvain is met with rivals the sun overhead. It basks them both in a steady light, swallows each of them whole and threatens to choke Sylvain. “Yeah. Of course I can do that.” When Felix raises his hands and cups freckled cheeks, the gesture is so soft, so gentle that Sylvain thinks tears could form. “I think,” Felix says, “that my love is gorgeous.” He kisses the back of Sylvain’s palm. “I think that she is kind, and brave. I think she rivals every other Margravine to exist. She knows how to wax poetic and create allyships through diplomatic reasoning. Have you heard of any other building peace with Sreng? I think not.” At last lips brush against lips. “I am proud of her.”

A long time ago, Sylvain wouldn’t have let anyone say such things. But she thinks now, sitting under the shade of a grand tree with familiar hands folded in her lap, that such things are alright.

It’s good to love and be loved in return.


End file.
